The day after the blizzard (no, there is nothing else I am capable of talking about, and if you had snow up to your eyeballs and more on the way you’d be a little mono-thematic as well) I shoveled our way out the back door to the car. I did not shovel out the front door, for several excellent reasons. Among them:
1. The front door opens directly into the living room, and I prefer not to have snow drifts form on the couch every time I enter or leave the premises.
2. Cape Codders don’t use their front doors. True story. Ask anyone.
So: the back door. I had to take out the lower panel of the screen door, poke my head and torso out through the opening, and shovel straight down for a few feet before I could even open the door. Then I wound the path around the side of the house, past the bulkhead to the basement, down to the driveway, and to the car. Then, of course, I removed the fascinating and bizarre wind-shaped moonscapes from on top of, around, and under my car. Matt filled in (or emptied) the gap between the car and the road. Which finally got plowed yesterday.
The next day, the water meter reader gal showed up, and left a note saying that I needed to clear a path to the meter, or they would estimate my usage for the month — and we all know in whose favor that always works. What got me is that the meter is like two steps from where the car is parked, hence, two steps from where I have shoveled. I say, bend over at the waist, maybe stick one foot into the snow, and read the damn meter.
And anyway, must you read my meter this very day? Don’t you know that normal life has been suspended for the foreseeable future? But I did it. I shoveled a wee path for the wee meter reader.
Yesterday, I called the propane company to see if we were due for a delivery soon, because if we were, I’d have to dig out a path from the road to the propane tanks. The propane tanks are located on the opposite side of the house as the path to the driveway. Of course, the answer was yes. So out I went again, to clear a path for the gasman. I was more willing to do this, because I enjoy having fuel to heat and cook with. So I’m more sympathetic to this delivery guy than most.
Not as sympathetic as I am toward the guy who delivers the Thai food, but hey. We can’t all be heroes.
So this morning, in the faint glow of dawn, I heard the propane guy drag his hose from the truck, up the driveway, and around the house on my beautifully sculpted path. I had even sketched a little smiley face in the snow next to the tanks, mayhap to brighten his day.
Then I heard a ruckus of boots on wood, cursing, and the front door opening and then slamming shut. As he always does, he stuck the receipt in the front door, along with a nasty note, grousing that I hadn’t shoveled off the front steps.
There are now several different accessible locations for you to stick your receipt (and a few others I’d like to suggest, after you slammed the door to my living room at 6:30 in the morning, ya great git), including:
1. the back door, clearly marked by the splendid, double-wide (two shovel-widths!) path winding prominently around the house.
2. the side door next to the water meter, also clearly marked by a handy, snow-free zone.
3. inside the lid of the propane tank is also a safe place, protected from the elements, a logical place to put such a thing, and also accessible by shod foot.
Given all these options, why must you cleave to your old, hidebound ways of clomping up the front steps and sticking it between door and jamb?
Think outside the box!
Subvert the dominant paradigm!
Get up offa that thing!
Get on the good foot!
Good Gawd! Hey!